I’m surrounded by screams. A cacophony of shouts, cries, and train whistles swallows me. I hear talk of England – what the weather will be like, the food, the people. A boy, younger than me by just a few years, holds onto his mother’s leg, refusing to board the train even as a dozen children rush past. Even as the lady in charge threatens to leave him behind. “Good!” he screams. “I don’t want to go!” His mother whispers reassuring words as she peels him off her.
He cries for the whole train journey, until we reach the docks. I try not to look at him.
On the boat, we’re told to stay put, to stay where the adults can see us. We’re on the top deck, so when I look over the edge and I can see the harsh waves crashing over each other. One girl, her skin a sickly green colour, lingers near the edge, leaning over every so often to throw up. I try not to stare at her.
When we get off the boat, we have to take yet another train, before we get there. We’re ushered inside a tall building and left in a room, where we’re told we’re going to wait for our English families. A man goes in and out, calling out names, taking children to their temporary families. I wait for my call, but it never comes.
A group of us, the leftovers, are brought to a small dingy room, where we’ll be staying until they find homes for us. I lie down on my tiny bed, shut my eyes, and wait for sleep to come. I try not to cry.
This room is my home for the next two weeks, until the man from before tells me to pack my things, because I’m going to live with a very nice couple in Norfolk. I don’t know where Norfolk is, but I don’t ask because anywhere is better than here.
Their names are Mary and George and they live on a farm. I’ve never seen a house like this, so big and quiet and warm. They say that when I’m settled in, they’ll take me to meet the cows. When they speak to me, they speak loudly, with big gestures and actions to help me understand. I want to tell them that I do speak some English, but they’re trying so hard to make me feel comfortable. I don’t want them to feel bad, so when they tell me about the school I’m starting tomorrow, I just nod along. I try not to laugh.
I never liked school back home, but it’s worse here. The kids look at me like I’m not human, the same look I’d get in Berlin when they’d hear my clearly Jewish name. I hear them whisper about me.
One girl defends me, tells them I’m just like everyone else, that they should be respectful. At lunch she invites me to sit with her. I smile and say yes.